David Lydon-Staley: PRODIGAL SUN • Cleaver Magazine

Fiction by David Lydon-Staley
PRODIGAL SUN

“What time dya say he was comin’?” I asked the wife. I had the teapot and some cups out. But should I get the kettle boiling was the question. For it to be ready, you know? Didn’t want the son and his… well, didn’t want them comin’ in without a hot cup o’ tea after their trek from the city.

“For the last time,” she shouted from the living room, “he said eight.”

That’s right. I looked at the clock on the oven. Seven-thirty. Oh, but I must add an hour. Daylight savings. Sure, what use is the time change anymore? Means the little ones are coming home from school in the dark. Medieval that is. “But it’s eight-twenty now.”

“Have you never been late in your life, Peadar, no?”

In a mood she was. But who would blame her? She had the house spotless. Up since the birds were callin’, greasin’ her elbow at the counters and the floors and even at the cobwebs in the corners. Always able to see dirt where I saw nothin’. “You’re only pretendin’ you see nothin’ to get outta cleaning,” she tells me. But I do try, honest to God. Well, I see these damn crumbs now, always falling from the toaster. Had better get a new one soon, otherwise the house’ll smell like burn when we use it.

“Good man yourself,” the wife said, coming into the kitchen, weighed down by the mop bucket, and seeing me droppin’ the crumbs in the bin. “I think we’re in good shape.” She groaned as she set the bucket down and groaned again as she came to a full stand, hands on her knees for leverage. “Tea?”

“Go on so.” The water would be faster reheatin’ that way anyway. “Mouth’s as dry as a nun’s gash.”

“Peadar! You’ll have your manners about you this evening.” She looked at me gruff-like, but I think she liked that one, her smile runnin’ away from her a little. “You’re not running our son out the house again.”

“Never ran him out in the first place,” I mumbled. She could tell I said something but her hearin’s not what it used to be, so she didn’t go after me. They always blame the fathers. Could spend your life toiling away in the fields, making enough to scrape by, get them fitted in new clothes, food on the table, and they’d still look for more: hugs and praise and a lot of talk about nothin’. Sure Da said feck all to us growin’ up and we turned out fine.

The wife handed me the tea and I gulped it down. Wasn’t lying about my thirst so I wasn’t.

“Well,” she says to me.

“Well, wha?” I said back and I knew I put the foot in it by the way she set her mug down.

“Your son’s coming home.” And what did she want from me statin’ that? Sure I knew he was coming home. She would do this sometimes, the wife would, tryna get me to talk. Couldn’t tell you why she wouldn’t just ask a question, point blank. Puttin’ the work on me she was, wanting me to look inside. But there’s nothin’ behind these eyes you can’t read from my face or hands. Open book I am.

“He is sure,” I replied. I took another swig. No sugar in the tea. Hard to get used to not having it since my last visit to the doc.

“Will be nice to have him back for a bit. Any longer and we wouldn’t recognize him.”

Wasn’t so sure I’d recognize him now. But I didn’t need to go saying that to her. Funny thing raisin’ a son. When I think about him, and he just pops into the head sometimes, not meaning to like. But when a particlar show comes on the telly, the doctor shows, he always liked those, thought he might go become one for a minute. Dr. McDonagh, can you imagine that? Or when they play that song he used t’always be singin’. Raglan Road. Voice of an angel people joked, but it honest to God sounded like it sometimes. Specially when he would sing in the church, up there by himself, the Oíche Chiúin at Christmas mass til his voice broke and you would only catch him singing with the door to his room closed. The funny thing is he’s always how he looked when he was ten. Can’t explain it. Just the head of blond hair on him, white almost, whenever he pops into me head. Like the sun. Kids draw it yellow up in the corner but if you were to look it straight on, if your eyes could stand it, you’d see it was a scorchin’ white. Probably almost brown his hair is these days. Happened me too. No sun here in Ireland to keep it bright, that’s my theory anyhow.

“And it will be good to meet his friend at last.”

She would keep goin’, talkin’ til I said somethin’. Could I not drink my tea in peace, no? And no friend is that he’s bringin’. They think I’m clueless, the lot of them. Behind the times. But some things God’ll forgive and some he won’t. Only looking out for his everlastin’ soul. At the end of the day, isn’t that love? Never mind saying it out loud or congradulatin’ or making a show to the world of your feelins with your hugs and your kisses. Time’s nothing on this mortal coil, the father does be sayin’ on a Sunday. And I believe it too. Blink of an eye and amn’t I in my fifties already. Must be more comin’ to us.

The wife made a show of getting two bedrooms ready, washin’ the sheets and hangin’ them on the line, as if the two of them won’t be sneakin’ the hallways when I’m gone to bed. Dad’ll never know, they’ll say. What are they waiting for? For me to die, surely? Once the aul fella’s gone, we can stop the charade. No point getting him angered up about it now. Only a few more years left in him. Not sure if I’m more angry that they think I’m ignoran’ enough that I don’t know or that they’ve made up their minds about what I’d do if they told me the truth o’ the matter. Do they think I’d kill the lad? My own flesh and blood. Just want him safe, and safe forever like. Throwin’ so much away for what he thinks is happiness. There’s no happiness in it though, not long term. If he kept up his Sundays at the church, he’d see it all clear.

“Peadar.”

“Yes, Eileen?”

“They’re here now, a stóir.”

She leaned over and patted my eyes with a tissue. Sweat in me eyes is all. And they were here. Could hear the engine wind down to nothin’, two doors slam, and the crunch of the stone outside. I drained the tea and went to the kettle, flipped the switch to get the water hot for them, for my little boy and his fella.

David Lydon-Staley is an Irish-American writer and scholar based in Philadelphia. He teaches at the Annenberg School for Communication at the University of Pennsylvania, where he also runs the Addiction, Health, & Adolescence (AHA!) research laboratory. He’s currently undertaking an MFA in Creative Writing at Drexel University. His fiction has previously appeared in Jonathan: A Queer Fiction Journal and Glitterwolf.